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  Oh God... Ella fought to keep the disgust from showing on her face. He’s treating the dress like a wedding dress. White, because he hasn’t had me yet.

  It was just a guess, but it made a sick kind of sense. Mason had managed to lead all these people through the Change, had built multiple biodomes and had a true Southern gentleman charm about him. But he was also, quite clearly, a sexual predator. And perhaps always had been.

  She smiled wide and ran her hands over her hips. “Everything fits perfectly.” And you’re never going to see me in black, she thought.

  “Good,” he replied. “Very good. Now, if you’d still like a tour—”

  “Love one,” she said, and there was nothing phony about her earnest desire to see how this man—a contractor in the world before—had taken her design for a self-sustaining biodome and turned it into a series of interconnected domes.

  “Then I would be delighted to provide one.” Mason tipped his Ascot cap and motioned to the door. “Ladies first.”

  She stepped into the hall, headed for the stairs and descended slowly, searching the first floor for any signs of trouble. The house décor was a mix of old and new. Antique furniture, also perfectly polished, filled the living and dining rooms. But the paintings on the walls...while some were older, boring examples of Southern landscapes, others looked more modern. Then she saw a painting she recognized and paused in front of it. The style was modern, but the painting was at least seventy years old.

  “You have good taste,” Mason said, stopping in front of the Picasso painting. “It’s titled ‘Head of a Woman.’ The palette is rather subdued, don’t you think? But I feel it is a good representation of mankind’s dual nature. She looks frightened, but not of something external.”

  “Of what she is becoming,” Ella said. The broad strokes cleaving the woman’s face into odd shapes was distinctly Picasso, but the inhuman visage it created really did resemble some of the half-human monsters roaming the world now.

  “He painted this in France. 1943.”

  “During the German occupation?”

  Mason grinned. “A woman who knows her history... You are better educated than I would have guessed.”

  She waved off the compliment and hoped to hide her intelligence. “Discovery channel.”

  “Mmm.” Mason reached out and traced the black line curving down through the woman’s face with his finger. “Dora Maar. That was her name. Picasso didn’t get along with her. I sometimes wonder if all these lines represented some inner desire to...cleave his subjects with a different kind of utensil. Of course, the brush is the gentleman’s preferred tool.”

  “You know a lot about Picasso,” Ella noted.

  Mason shrugged. “The boys were smart enough to steal the placards with the art.”

  “These aren’t prints?”

  “Procured them a few months back. From the Ackland Art Museum in North Carolina. Not too far. Four hours by truck.”

  “Not too far? A lot can happen in four hours. Your boys are lucky to be alive.”

  “You survived a much longer journey.”

  “I had Peter.”

  Mason scrunched his lips, twisting them side to side. “You have that much faith in his abilities?”

  Ella paused before answering. Would intimidating Mason with Peter’s prowess make the man afraid to overstep, or would it solidify his resolve to have Peter killed? He’s going to kill him either way, she thought, and decided to put the fear of God into him. “He’s seen and done things that most people can’t even imagine.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” The grin on Mason’s face was more convincing than his words. This was a brutal man. But what he didn’t know was that surviving in the wild had turned her into a brutal woman. He wore his savagery very close to the surface, but he still had no idea who she was, or of what she was capable.

  “The world has made us all do...unsavory things,” Ella said. “But my husband’s long list of violence started long before the Change. Killing monsters is one thing, killing people...” She shook her head in faux disgust. “That takes a different sort of man.”

  “That it does.” Mason started down the hall toward the kitchen, a spring in his step. “Peter sounds like the sort of man I need. Think he would be interested in staying on? All of you could stay, of course. Even the...girl traveling with you. Unless you have someplace you’d rather be?”

  Mason paused by the kitchen door, motioning for Ella to once again take the lead. “I know the Askews were your friends, and I regret the condition in which you found them, but I think you’ll agree that this oasis is worth saving, no matter the cost.”

  Ella couldn’t hide her anger over Bob’s passing and Lyn’s deplorable condition, but she also couldn’t blatantly disagree with him. While Bob and Lyn’s fates were deplorable, and something Mason would pay for, she couldn’t deny that this last colony of humanity outside of ExoGen needed to be protected. “I do. Agree. But I don’t like it.”

  “No one does,” he said. “Not at first. But a few nights without fear of being consumed tends to alter perspectives.”

  Ella stepped into the kitchen.

  Three women turned to greet her. She recognized Charlotte, who was rolling out what looked like a pie crust. Shawna was there, too, chopping apples.

  Apples? Ella peered at the bright red fruit. There must be an old, non-ExoGenetic orchard nearby. Her mouth watered at the prospect of eating an apple again.

  The third woman was blonde and aquiline, her features sharp and defined. Where Shawna was curvy, this woman was thin, almost frail. “Salut,” the woman said in French, confirming Ella’s fears about maid choice. But if this was the French maid, what did Mason have in mind for her? She determined to never find out.

  “Hello,” Ella replied, and then to the other women. “Hello again.”

  Forced smiles were the only replies before the women returned to work, their eyes evading Mason’s. They were terrified of him.

  “Sabine,” Mason said. “This is Ella. Could you prepare her something to eat?” He paused, thinking for a moment. “And have the same brought to the children with the Questionables.”

  Sabine gave a curtsy, her movements fluid, almost poetic. “Oui, Monsieur Mason.”

  She was a dancer, Ella thought. Before the Change. A ballerina. But was she even French? Ella didn’t think so. She spoke French, that was clear, but the accent didn’t sound authentic.

  “Thank you, kindly,” Mason said, as he breezed through the kitchen and into the back room. Once upon a time, the space might have been a mud room, where tired farmers, or a family’s children, would have kicked off dirty shoes and boots. Now it would lead to a very modern door, offering passage to a biodome.

  As Ella followed Mason toward the back of the kitchen, Sabine’s hand snapped out. The woman’s movement was so fast that Ella nearly punched her, but when she saw the look in the woman’s eyes, and felt the steady grip on her hand...

  It was a warning.

  She’s telling me to get out, or maybe to make myself undesirable somehow.

  Ella returned the squeeze, offered a grin and gave her a knowing nod. The woman let her go, but took no solace in the message being received.

  Are they really just concerned about my wellbeing? Or is there something else? Something I’m missing?

  The hiss and pop of a decontamination room coiled Ella’s insides. She’d heard the familiar sound all too often in her life, and during her time with ExoGen, after the Change, it served only to remind her that she was a prisoner. That was, until she had escaped. And here she was, about to walk through another decontamination chamber. One that I designed, she reminded herself, but a prisoner once more.

  For now.

  She stepped into the chamber and waited as Mason closed and sealed the door behind them.

  “Removes any and all particulates from bodies and clothing. So if—” He waved his hand dismissively. “What am I saying? You already know all this. You recognize the
design, of course?”

  Ella nodded slowly. “It looks the same as ours.”

  “The one provided by your husband’s mistress...” He shook his head like he still couldn’t believe Peter’s betrayal, like he was stung by it himself.

  “I hated the bitch,” Ella said. “But she also saved my family’s life.”

  “Interesting perspective.” The decon fans kicked on, filling the chamber with a tumultuous, roaring wind that shifted direction every few seconds, nearly tearing the skirt from her body. There was nothing she could do to keep it from lifting up, revealing the lacy white panties she’d been provided. But Mason had already seen a lot more. It didn’t keep him from leering, though. He was so intent on looking, that he didn’t see her own gaze, leveled at the thick vein on the side of his neck, or her hooked fingers, a twitch away from tearing into him.

  Then the fans fell silent, the pressure equalized, and the door on the opposite side of the chamber unlocked. Mason opened the door, flooding the small space with the fragrant smell of growing things. The odor nearly brought tears to her eyes, and Mason did notice that.

  “It’s moving,” he said, “for everyone. The first time they come here. And smell this. See it for themselves. Taste it. But to truly appreciate it all, you need to see the macro view. Lead the way.”

  The layout of the biodome hadn’t changed from her original design. There were twenty raised rectangular garden beds. Each fifteen feet long and seven wide. A central aisle divided the space into even sides with walkways between the beds and along the walls. A network of water pipes crisscrossed overhead, with three nozzles positioned over each garden, providing an even spread for the plants growing below.

  And they were growing.

  Whoever was in charge of the dome had a green thumb. But right now, she and Mason were alone. She’d expected to find people—more women—tending the gardens. It can’t be just Mason and the maids. Not with five functioning domes.

  He sent everyone away, she thought. Wanted the place to himself. Away from prying eyes or judgmental glares. He might have already visited the self-service station while she was in the bath, but he apparently had vigor to spare. In fact, now that she could see him up and about, he looked bigger and fitter than she would have guessed. But was he a threat—aside from the gun tucked into the back of his pants? That would be determined the moment he tried anything.

  “What do you think?” Mason said, walking the long way around the room, admiring the crops. “Take a closer look.”

  Ella obeyed, crouching down beside a row of carrots. The stems were lush and green. Fragrant, too. Her stomach growled.

  With a chuckle, Mason said, “I heard that from here. Take one. Try it.”

  That was an invitation Ella couldn’t pass up, and doing so would be supremely suspicious. She uprooted a carrot, surprised and delighted to find its bright orange body a full foot long. She stood, wielding the carrot the way an actor might an Oscar award, and she carried it to the sink mounted to the side wall. She looked at the root vegetable, almost glowing in the bright sunlight beaming through the glass dome above, protecting this oasis from the deadly crops outside.

  “Daucus carota ssp. Sativa. It’s perfect,” she whispered, and then took a bite.

  Flavor exploded with each chew. It was distinctly carrot, but almost like carrot concentrate, enough to make her pucker, salivate and crave more. She took a second bite without swallowing, chewing vigorously as the sweetness hit her. The flavor, on par with the best cake she’d ever eaten, was followed by a realization. She’d gotten the carrot’s identification wrong.

  This is Daucus carota ssp. Sativa variant RC-714.

  This is an ExoGenetic carrot!

  Her jaw stopped moving, the toxic food frozen in her mouth and stuck between her teeth. Did I swallow it? Oh god, I swallowed it!

  “Too good to be true,” Mason said, slowly moving toward her. “Right?”

  She pushed the carrot chunks out of her mouth, letting the food fall to the concrete floor. She spat a few times and then used the sink to rinse out her mouth.

  Mason stopped ten feet way. “Didn’t your parents teach you not to waste food, Ella?”

  Her mouth was full of water, ready to spit into the sink, when the last word of his sentence sank in.

  ‘Ella.’

  He knows.

  He knows who I am!

  Ella turned toward Mason, fists clenched, but he’d already closed the distance.

  16

  “I can’t do that,” Boone said, taking a step back from Peter. “Not until I get Mason’s say so.”

  “Your men are dead.” Peter motioned to the back of the still-open moving truck. The gesture was unnecessary. Boone knew what Peter was talking about. But it got the man to take another sobering look. The absolute carnage filling the inside of the truck—and only the inside—revealed an attacker, or attackers, who were incredibly strong and smart. And if Peter was right about who that was... “We’re running out of time.”

  Boone stared at him, no doubt weighing the dangers of trusting Peter and betraying Mason’s orders. And while he was doing that, Peter was gauging the likelihood that he could subdue Boone and take the weapons he needed. He hoped he wouldn’t need to do that. Weapons weren’t any good without people to aim and fire them.

  “Don’t try it,” Boone said, taking another step back and bringing his AR-15 up a little. It wasn’t quite aimed at Peter, but the threat was clear.

  “Damnit, Boone.” Peter gripped the sides of his head, trying to contain his building anger. “You don’t know what—”

  A loud thunk against the outside of the moving truck interrupted and pulled Peter’s eyes toward it. A spear protruded from the metal side. The tip was stone, but it had been thrown with the incredible force of someone no longer human.

  When Peter turned back to Boone, the man held a hand up to his cheek, where it had been sliced open. Blood flowed into his beard. The spear throw had been meant for his head, a realization that slowly crept into Boone’s eyes.

  Too slowly.

  “Down!” Peter yelled, diving into Boone. He shoved the muzzle of the AR-15 down and tackled the man to the ground as a second spear sailed past, puncturing the truck’s large tire.

  Peter scrambled back to his feet, yanking Boone up with him and searching their surroundings for attackers. The fenced-in lot was clear, but they were surrounded by swamplands. The spears gave him a direction, though—across the street, in the trees through which they had come. They’re blocking the path back to Hellhole. Peter glanced at his truck... If we go on foot.

  “Where are my keys?” Peter shouted.

  “In the garage,” Boone replied, stumbling forward as Peter shoved him toward the garage door. Movement atop the chain link fence surrounding the lot caught Peter’s attention and confirmed his fears. It was a hair-covered Rider. The creature, who had previously been a man, was a foot shorter than Peter, but it would be far stronger. And the long, curved teeth protruding from his lower jaw and curving up into the skin of his cheeks, were a formidable weapon, not to mention the long, black fingernails turned into claws.

  Peter yanked the spear from the truck’s tire, triggering a loud hiss of escaping air. He lobbed the spear at the Rider about to leap into the lot. The spear missed its target, but it forced the man-beast to lean out of the way. He lost his grip and fell away. It was a momentary reprieve, but it gave Boone time to reach the garage.

  Boone turned in the doorway, dropped to one knee and brought his weapon up. Peter flinched when he looked down the weapon’s barrel. The rifle coughed. Bullets buzzed through the air. There was a shout of pain and then a thud of flesh hitting pavement.

  Peter spun around to find a dead Rider laying behind him, three rounds stitched up its chest. Even as blood pooled around it, the creature still reached for him, black claws flexing. Peter had saved Boone’s life and Boone had returned the favor.

  “Move it!” Boone said, his shock giving way to the
confident actions of a man who had seen action in the past and come out on top. But how many men had Boone had by his side during those encounters? And how many monsters were out there now?

  Only one way to find out, Peter thought, as he charged for the open door. The hard way.

  Boone closed and locked the door behind Peter, watching through the glass. “The hell are they? You know, don’t you?”

  “We call them Riders.”

  “Riders? What do they ride?”

  “Woolies, but I didn’t see any out there, and that’s a good thing.”

  “But...” Boone looked stymied. “They’re working together? Like people?”

  “Most ExoGenetic creatures became solo predators, hunting each other toward the mass extinction of all life on Earth,” Peter explained. “But the last creatures to turn during the Change—some people and some herd animals—adapted into packs. And in this case, they evolved as cooperative species. Almost symbiotic.”

  “Symby-whatic?”

  “Means they need each other to survive.”

  “Seem to know a lot about this stuff,” Boone said, suspicion creeping back into his voice.

  Peter moved to the front office, ducking low as he looked out the window. “Also means the Woolies won’t be far.” He snuck back into the garage. “Now would be a great time for those weapons we spoke about.”

  Boone hesitated for just a moment and then kicked open a chest against the wall. Inside was a collection of weapons that looked like they might have been taken from previous captives. Atop the haphazard mass of metal was Peter’s own rifle. He picked up the weapon and ejected the magazine. It was full, but he didn’t see any spares in the chest, or ammunition. He looked out at the lot again. Beastmaster’s back hatch was down. His cases of supplies and ammo still surrounded the mounted machine gun. Boone’s men had been interrupted before they could fully pillage the vehicle. “We need to get to my truck.”